Donk's Honky Tonk
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: Modern AU Fic, focusing on Chelsie pairing, primarily, but others as well. All of your DA faves will make an appearance. Elsie Hughes runs a cozy local dive called Donk's, owned by Rob Crawley. There will be intrigue, romance, POSSIBLY MURDER!, line dancing, Patsy Cline, shots of whiskey, neon signs shaped like boots and more! A gift fic for my hubby, at his request.
1. A Little Cash, A Little Hank

She hurried across the small, empty parking lot, bracing herself against the early December wind, her face needled with angry precipitation hovering somewhere between sleet and snow. She'd never gotten used to the weather here, and doubted she ever would, though she'd lived in Stockton for almost twenty years now.

 _Why are you still here, Elsie? What's in this place for you, anymore?_ The voice in her head sounded like Joe. Of course.

She shook her head, as if she could clear her mind that way. She unlocked the front door, letting herself into the bar, and flicked on the long row of light switches, one by one. These questions were pointless; both answerless and obvious: she was here because her life was currently comprised only of known quantities, and obligation. How could she leave the safety, the steadiness of life here? What would become of Becky, otherwise? She shuddered to think of the sort of place Medicaid alone would cover.

 _No, you're good and stuck. And it's not_ all _bad, is it?_ She grinned, as she always did, when she flicked the final two light switches upward: suddenly, a crazed, multicolored web of novelty lights, shaped like tiny chili peppers, which had been strung with haphazard joy around the perimeter of the dance floor at least a decade ago, popped to life, as did the sign outside the front door:

DONK'S

The neon in the elaborate letters glowed a garish, but somehow welcoming, hot pink. They were embraced by a cowboy boot and a beer mug on either side. Now that the sign was on, both the boot and the mug appeared to tilt precariously back and forth. The sign was fully committed to itself. She pushed the front door shut and let herself into the small office behind the stage.

Thursdays were delivery days, busy days, and folks would still show up tonight, in spite, or more likely, _because_ of, the nasty weather. People around here didn't let Mother Nature dictate how and when they drank – or danced. She was eying the staff schedule tacked to the corkboard above her desk when her phone buzzed in her jeans' pocket.

"Rob! How's it going? It's great to hear from you," she tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. She sometimes forgot _she_ didn't own Donk's (though her bank balance never did); _Robert Crawley_ did. She'd been running it for him for a over a decade and a half ago, which was when, as best as she could comprehend, he'd purchased it as some combination of anniversary gift and elaborate inside joke for his wife, Cora. For the first decade or so, they'd been frequent guests, and Elsie had done many a shots of fine whiskey with the pair of them over the worn wood of the bar, had shaken her hair and tail out on the dance floor many nights with Cora.

But Rob Crawley was the sort of man who bought his wife a honky-tonk the same way that most people bought their wives a funny card and some flowers: on a whim, without the least bit of thought to expense. For years, he and Cora maintained a gorgeous home in the hills overlooking New Hope on the PA side of the river, but once their youngest, Sybil, had headed to med school at Stanford two years ago, they'd been splitting their time between the East and West Coasts. She was wracking her brain, trying to figure out the last time she'd actually _seen_ her boss.

"Things are great, Elsie, how're they down by you?"

"All good, really – I might have to jump off soon, actually. I've got the distributor coming any minute and Andy and Daisy should be here by four, though the weather's getting iffy. Doesn't ever stop the locals, of course, so we've got all hands on deck through the weekend," she rifled through her desk drawer, hunting for a granola bar she knew was floating around somewhere in its depths.

"Ah, shit, I wasn't thinking, of course you're busy now," Rob replied. He sounded like he was talking to her through his car speakers.

"I _told_ him to call you on Sunday, Elsie!" Cora's voice piped up. "But he _simply_ couldn't wait."

"Cora! How's it going?" Now she was _really_ puzzled. She tried sorting it out. Rob Crawley was no fool, but he _was_ often impetuous. She had a feeling she would be seeing the pair of them soon. Possibly within minutes. She started laughing.

"Are you going to tell me you're winding your way down River Road as we speak, and about to darken Donk's doorstep?"

Their laughter was slightly staticky but genuine.

"You know how he is! If he had _his_ way, we would be," Cora replied. "We're in California at the mo', going to pick up Sybil, then meeting up with Mary in LA. Edith will drive -"

"We're staying in the PA house for the Christmas season, Elsie! We want to throw a big friends and family bash at Donk's the week before Christmas!" Rob interjected, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "And all the locals too. Hey, is Charlie Carson still mayor? I love that Stockton has a mayor, and that it's _him,_ it simply _tickles_ me, it's so old-timey! Anyway, even if they've booted him, tell him to give me a call, so he can rally the troops."

"Oh, he still is, Rob," Elsie's heart jumped and then resettled itself, as it did every time she considered Charles Carson these days. Oh who was she kidding? He'd been making her feel this way for the past decade, at least. It was just that neither of them knew what to do about it. It was…complicated. "He and the regular crew are playing tonight, I'll see what he and I can put together. You know he never does anything by halves."

"And neither do _you,_ Elsie, as we both know. That's why you're the boss lady," Rob replied. "Okay, great. Team Crawley will be in town early next week. How about we stop by next Thursday night? Tell Charlie I wanna hear some Cash, _and_ some Hank. Got it?"

"Will do, Rob. See you guys next week." She shoved her phone back into her pocket. She'd found the granola bar. It was smushed on one side, but still edible. She bit into it as she heard the buzz of the service entrance bell.

"Coming!" She ran across the dance floor. That's be Tom Barrow, with the booze delivery. She hoped Andy didn't get stuck in the snow, and he was giving Daisy a ride. Easier to get stranded on the side of a country road if you had company. More interesting, too.

"Here we go," she muttered to herself, glancing over at the stage. Charlie Carson'd be up there tonight, singing Cash, Hank, Willie, Patsy, and then some. And the crowd would eat it up. Hell, _she'd_ eat it up.

 _You fool, you're still here, because you_ want _to be here._ And now her inner voice sounded like _her,_ not Joe, who was just a ghost, in any case.

 _Work now, play later,_ she promised herself, vague as to what that meant, exactly. For now, it was probably best to be vague, when it came to her, Charles Carson, and this perfect dive of a honky tonk.


	2. Boss 'Round Here

Chapter 2 – Boss 'Round Here

 **A/N: Lovelies! Welp, here I am, writing something I never thought I'd write: AU, modern fanfic. But I think this is gonna be fun. And it's a gift fic for my hubby, who is tickled that I am writing it. And last night, he asked that it be "A Christmas Episode" fic. So, here we are.**

 **It's set in the US, today, in a fictionalized version of a bunch of small Delaware River towns in both New Jersey and Pennsylvania (they all exist, but I've played with geography and details a bit). All DA characters who appear will be the age they would have been in 1917 (I've basically made everyone 100 years younger! HA!)**

 **Okay, I hope you all like it! This is super new territory for me! I have no idea how successful this will be, or if I can stick with it. Canon, period Chelsie will likely always be my fave, but I hope this is fun – for you and me both!**

 **~ CeeCee**

He grabbed his guitar and shut the hatchback, squinting his eyes against the blowing snow. He pulled his cap down, grinned to himself. Regardless of the weather, the parking lot was already dotted with a dozen cars, and it wasn't even five-thirty yet. Tonight, tomorrow night – his voice would be hoarse before they'd let him stop. Maybe he could convince Elsie Hughes to get up for a few Patsy numbers, give himself a break.

She had a better singing voice than she realized, and besides – at Donk's, it wasn't _really_ about that. It was about the _performance,_ getting folks on their feet, dancing, clapping, singing, shaking – and yeah, smooching. Or, at least, _thinking_ about it. Everyone came to Donk's to have a good time. The locals came because it felt like home, but rowdier. The tourists from New Hope and Lamberville who were lucky and adventurous enough to stumble upon it, entered shyly, but stayed because it felt _authentic,_ oddly enough, of all places: this country western bar in New Jersey, on the banks of the Delaware.

He pushed the door open, musing on the proprietress of the place, as he was wont to do, more often than he liked to admit. Though his heart sped up at the thought, he'd recently come to the conclusion that, where he and Elsie Hughes were concerned, he need to stop musing and start _doing_. This had gone on long enough, frankly, and they were both adults. And life was goddamn short, as he'd been so politely reminded of when he turned sixty a few months ago.

Everyone greeted him with a holler and a wave as Andy Parker set him up with a whiskey, on the rocks.

"How goes it, Charlie?" Andy grinned at him, taking a sip of his own drink.

"It goes and goes, Andy, until I'm not sure where it went," he raised his eyebrow as Andy chuckled, and they clinked their glasses together.

"Hiya, Charlie!" Daisy bounded up, in jeans, boots and plaid button down, the unofficial uniform of Donk's, her brown hair is a swinging ponytail. She planted a kiss on his cheek, turned to the bartender.

"Two IPAs, two Jim Beams, Andrew, good sir," she gave him a saucy salute. He obliged, and Charlie watched the younger man follow Daisy's path back to the table on the far side of the stage.

"Dude," he started. "Is that still cool to say, 'dude'? Anyway, _dude_ , just ask her out, already, will you? Put yourself, and the rest of us, out of our collective misery. We all know she'll say yes."

"Yeah, man, I don't know, Charlie," he shook his head. Andy was a good kid, hard-working, thoughtful. Charlie knew from Joe Moseley, who taught at the high school, that he was trying to get his GED, though he was at least twenty-two, twenty-three. And he'd get there, Charlie had no doubt. "Daisy's great; sweet, cute, smart, a lot of fun – but she's just been through so much, you know? I feel like I need to let her…do her thing. And I gotta do mine…not, you know, forever, but for _now._ "

"Timing is everything, I can't argue with _that,_ " Charlie agreed, nodded for Andy to top him off as he mulled his own romantic conundrum. And Andy wasn't wrong – Daisy _had_ been through a veritable shit storm in her short life. The cops and CPS had picked her up about a decade ago, on the footbridge not half a mile from here, in her nightgown in the middle of February, her underfed, bruised twelve-year-old body nearly shivering so hard it was a wonder she didn't fall off the side, into the roiling river below. Charlie refused to contemplate that the girl had actually _wanted_ just that to happen. It was too horrible.

But ten years later, things were much better for her, he contemplated, as he watched her joke around with a trio of middle-aged couples in the corner of the room. Most of it was due to the Masons, to be sure, and getting her out of the hellhole she spent her early childhood in. Bee and Al Mason had never had bio kids, but Daisy was just as much theirs at this point than any blood relation.

"Listen, dude," he started again, and Andy scoffed at him. "Seriously, I get it; wait, if you must. But there's good timing, and there's just letting a good thing pass you by."

"Sounds like you know of what you speak," Andy grinned wryly.

"Like I said, it goes and goes, until there's not much left. Make sure you grab some of the good stuff, you hear?" Charlie finished his drink in gulp, was startled by a clap on the back. He turned to find Chuck Grigg standing there, grinning, fiddle case in hand.

"You ready, man?"

"Always, you know me. Where's Gladys?"

"She's on her way, got stuck at work. Hey Andy, set us up again, alright, my man? And one for Gladdie, too, she's nearly here." Andy came over and started another round.

"Not for me, Andy, though I hate to see it go to waste. Two's my limit until after I've been up there awhile," he shrugged out of his coat.

"No waste here, gents, not while I'm around," a pert voice made him spin on his heel. Elsie Hughes was there, dressed similarly to Daisy, down to the ponytail. She was dragging a hideously wonderful pre-decorated, pre-lit, betinseled Christmas tree by its scraggly tip. She reached past him to grab the extra glass of whiskey, and he caught a whiff of her shampoo. _Jesus god, Charlie. Enough counseling the youth around here, and get your_ own _act together,_ dude.

"Chuck, how are you, my dear?" She sipped the whiskey, nodded at Grigg, who leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Tryin' my best to stay outta trouble, El, but still, I fail more often than not," he rolled his eyes at her.

"No surprise there. And you, Mr. Mayor?" She smiled up at him, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Half the town probably thought they already were sleeping together, and the other half, who knew what was what, figured they'd never. The truth was something between the two. He thought. He _hoped._

"Simply trying to lead the discontented populace, Elspeth," he responded, tipping his cap at her.

"Yes, terribly discontented, the folks of Stockton," she rolled her eyes at him, and he lifted his eyebrow in response. "Tidy your hair, Charles, and help me set this tree up before it gets too crowded in here."

"What more are we going to do to it? Top it with a whole roasted turkey and set it on fire?" He retorted. Andy and Chuck let out roars of laughter, and Elsie choked a little on her drink. She coughed, covering up her laughter.

"Hilarious, really. Grab the other end, will you?"

He complied, and they made their way to a small alcove on the side of the stage, where a tree stand was already in place. They settled it in the slots, and she knelt and swiftly began to tighten the screws into the prefabricated holes in the faux tree trunk.

"Keep it steady," she muttered, and he grunted in agreement. She looked up at him, at the tree. "It's crooked, I think."

He assessed it, agreed with her. "Yes, it is, but does it matter?"

"I always considered you rather particular, you know. Maybe not so much," she rolled her eyes at him again. He loved it.

"I suppose I am, when it's something important," he shrugged, shaking the tree, earning a glare from her as she adjusted the screws. "But a slight tilt is the least of this thing's problem."

"Be nice to the tree, please, nobody's perfect," she answered tartly. "Okay, tip it to the left a little more, a little more…stop." She hopped up, dusting off her hands, walked around behind it. Shifted a few things, then plugged the light cord.

"Good god, woman, where did you find this thing? The Island of Misfit Trees?"

"I like it, actually. It's…

"Hideous? Unsightly?"

"Colorful," she answered, and looked at him for a minute. He didn't want to say anything, didn't want to ruin the fun they were having. He'd done it before, put his foot in, upset the balance they'd worked hard to achieve over the years since Joe had died, and Alice had left for good.

"Hey, you wanna sing tonight? Patsy?"

"Yeah, okay," she smiled at him, finally. He loved when he could make her smile. "But no 'Crazy'. 'Midnight', alright? And after ten, when everyone takes a break."

"Fine with me," he replied, his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm a reasonable man, open to negotiation."

"I gotta get back to work, and you need to set up. I want you guys starting by seven, okay? Bee Mason's bringing dinner for the staff, grab some so you don't keel over, crack your head open on my stage," her face was impassive.

"On it," he could see Gladdie Denker walking in now, shaking snow off her coat, followed by Tom Barrow, who occasionally played bass with them. "And thanks for dinner, it's hot work up there."

"No problem," she shrugged. "Thanks for helping with the tree." She smiled at the damned ugly thing, then at him. They she did something that nearly knock him over. She stepped up, grabbed his bicep, and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Appreciate it, Mr. Mayor."

And she walked back to the bar, leaving him doubting how he was going to remember a damned lyric tonight.


	3. No One's Perfect

**A/N: Hi, all! Thanks so much for your support of this story so far. I feel like in this chappie, I am finally getting my bearings, balancing character development and plot.**

 **A few things:**

 **Patmore/Hughes (and, in coming chapters, Isobel) is basically a friendship 'ship for me. Modernized, I've essentially morphed them into a version of me and my besties (not sure who is who, we're all sorta…all of them). We swear** ** _a lot_** **. We love each other** ** _a lot._** **So there's some blue language here, and likely will be more.**

 **I already know I am going to be dealing with some triggering issues in this story, and I will ALWAYS post trigger warnings when necessary. There's A LOT to unpack with this version of Chelsie, because for me, what I love about writing period, canon Chelsie is how they existed in their relationship and came together, despite all of the societal, personal, and class-based barriers that simply don't exist in the modern Western world to such a degree anymore. I** ** _wanted_** **then to be friends, have high regard for each other, in this modern setting, for the journey to feel similar to what we saw on DA.**

 **Okay, shutting up now. Thanks, you guys.**

 **~CeeCee**

"I better unplug it now, though there's nothing more pathetic than an unlit Christmas tree," Elsie mused to Bee Mason, as she finished organizing the clean glassware behind the bar. She'd let Andy go a little early, and sent Daisy with him; he'd mentioned he needed to study for a test, and far be it from her to get in the way of anyone striving for self-improvement. "Thanks for sticking around, Bee. And thanks for dinner; one can only subsist for so long on granola bars."

"Leave it for minute, I like it," her friend responded, grinning at it. Elsie went over and shut off the rest of the lights, and the tree glowed like an inferno of good cheer, the only source of light in the darkened bar.

"It's really something," Elsie laughed. "Charles Carson was having none of it."

"Eh, he doesn't know everything," Bee shrugged, but she was smiling. "Gonna do anything about _that_ , by the way? I figure I haven't asked you in a least a month or two, so it's about time for me to pester you again."

"And _I_ am going to answer you like I _always_ do when you ask: do what, exactly, Bee? Dig up all sorts of crap _both_ of us would rather forget? Ask him if he wants to get together and cut the faces out old group photos, glue them back together in an order that makes more sense? I'm really not trying to be a jerk, Bee, but what else am I supposed to do? We get along pretty well for two people whose spouses were sleeping together regularly, right under our noses, for years," she took a deep breath, resisted the urge to pour herself a drink. Nope, she had a cutoff time every night, and they were _way_ past it now. "But getting together? _Romantically?_ That just sounds like a bad _Lifetime_ movie."

"All _Lifetime_ movies are bad, don't be redundant," Bee answered, not put out in the least by Elsie's reply. "But, look. You guys got something…going on. Something _good._ Or you _could_ have it _._ Life's short. How long are you going to punish yourself?"

"For what exactly? There's so much to punish myself _for,_ " she shook her head, bent down to retrieve her coat and hat, where she had stored them under the bar, and to give herself a moment. She loved Bee, but she didn't want to start blubbering right now. She counted to ten, then stood back up, looked her friend right in the eye.

"You know, Bee, the past ten years, Charles only has to live with the fact that he was a complete _idiot_ back then. I was an idiot…and a horrible person, a horrible wife." There. She'd said it.

"What happened to Joe wasn't your fault," Bee said quietly, shrugging into her coat.

"Oh, really? Prove it," Elsie felt angry and helpless and like she was falling down a small, dark, endless hole, as she did every time she talked about Joe. She stepped out from behind the bar, and her friend grabbed her, wrapped her arms around her.

"Okay, let's both shut up for now," Bee finally said, pulling away. "Listen, I know there's a lot about all of this that's _super_ shitty, but I really was just teasing you, because it's just makes me feel good, seeing the way you two are around each other. He's been a good _friend_ to you, El, and you know it."

"Not as good as you, Bee. Or Izzy," she swallowed her tears. "But yes, he has, in spite of everything. He's a good man, Charles Carson. A good _person._ "

"Well, you can admit that, at least. It's a start."

They were at the front door, and they both braced themselves as they headed out into the blowing snow. Elsie hesitated, then added,

"We're having lunch tomorrow, at The Logan."

"Oh, boy, no you didn't just dangle that information at me at the end of the night," Bee retorted. "The _Logan_ , eh? Fancy tourist-trap spot for the two of you, then?"

"Rob Crawley's coming back for the winter, entire family and various hangers-on in tow," Elsie answered, shaking her head, pulling her gloves on. "He specifically asked that Charles and I plan something for the week before Christmas, here."

"Why not just _meet_ here, then, before you open?"

"Unchaperoned? And feed the gossip mill around here? No thanks. We'll dine in a public place, where everyone can see where our hands are at all times," Elsie didn't think Bee would buy it, and she was right.

"When was the last time you cared what anyone thought of you, really? Aside from me and Izzy, on rare occasions?"

"Fine, then. You're right. I don't trust myself with Charles Carson without at least bar full of witnesses," she threw her arms up in the air. "Listen, I have to go. I'll see you next Thursday, for sure, but maybe me, you and Iz can grab lunch or dinner before that."

"At _The Logan_?"

"I mean this sincerely, Bee – fuck off," she replied, and they both started laughing, engulfed each other in a hug.

"Love you, see you later."

"Yeah, love you too. See you," she ran to her car, cranked up the heat and the radio, and drove home, pretending that she wasn't remotely excited to have lunch with her mayor tomorrow.

oooOOOooo

"Hey, Elspeth, do you want a cup of coffee? I've got a meeting at playhouse in about a half hour, but nothing before. Do you have time?"

Charles Carson's question startled her out of her reverie; they were walking down Main Street in New Hope, past clusters of shopping, happy tourists.

"Sure, Mr. Mayor. That little French place is around here, right? The one tucked down an alley, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, and they've got lots of cakes and treats, too," he nodded, grinning, glancing in either direction. "It's one block _this_ way, I think, great idea," he pointed to their left, adjusting his Jeff cap. Elsie resisted the urge to grab him and kiss him, he was being so unintentionally endearing.

They secured caffeine and pastries, opting to continue their stroll rather than sitting in the crowded, tiny shop. It was cold, but the snow that had fallen the night before was all but melted, the sky a crisp, clear blue.

"What've you got going on at the playhouse?" The theater had recently be renovated, and was known regionally for decent, crowd-pleasing, often seasonal productions. The building had once been a mill, sitting right on the edge of the PA side of the Delaware.

"They're thinking of adding a rentable event space, maybe even including use of the theater, in certain situations, for private clients. I know the woman managing it, she wanted my input," Charles shrugged. Given that he only had roughly six hundred constituents, his mayoral duties didn't entirely fill his days. For the past thirty or so years, long before his stint as a politician, he'd run a successful special event planning business. These days, he mostly consulted on a project basis.

"It's a good idea, the river views alone would make it a great spot for small weddings, anniversary and special birthday parties, whatever. I wonder if Rob would consider renting Donk's out for events," she mused, half-kidding.

"Why not? I know you're joking, but seriously, think about it. Bachelor and bachelorette parties, of course, no-brainers. But the place is...kitschy…enough for certain types of birthday parties, too. You could hire a band – I know you know a few people, ha ha - do live karaoke, line dancing…I can't remember, do you guys have any sort of kitchen situation over there? You wouldn't even need a hood, you could probably just get a convection oven and some induction burners and…" he trailed off, glanced over at her. "Sorry, I got a little carried away there." He laughed, sipped his coffee.

"You've given this a lot of thought, I see," she was a bit nonplussed. She felt almost defensive, worried about the way he was talking about _her_ bar. Except, it wasn't hers, not really. It was Rob Crawley's.

"Not really, no, I was just brainstorming," he paused. "You hate the idea of the place changing, don't you?" They'd arrived at the theater's parking lot, and the wind from the water blew his cap from his head. She caught it, went to hand it back to him.

Then she did something else instead, something that she didn't even think about before she did it: took a step closer to him, stood on tiptoe, and pushed it firmly back on his head. He moved a bit closer too, and she thought it was just going to happen, he was going to kiss her, right here, in the parking lot of the Bucks County Playhouse, while talking about changing her bar. Rob's bar. Whatever.

But he didn't. His face got soft, and he grinned down at her. "Good reflexes," he quipped. "Thanks for that, I love this hat."

"Joe had one too, he loved the damned thing," she replied. _What is_ wrong _with you? Torture yourself, if you must, but why Charles? Leave him be, let him feel good, even if you can't let yourself._

"Yeah, I know, we got 'em together in Ireland," he responded, smiling. His eyes were sad though, and she had done that. "It was a bit before you guys met, for sure. Mid-nineties, ninety-four? No, ninety-five, I think, because Alice and I had just started dating, yeah. Joe and I had planned the trip, and she was pretty pissed when I told her it was boys-only."

"I'm sorry I brought him up. I can be a real asshole sometimes, Charles."

"Yeah, well, join the club," he shrugged. "I know it's…different…for you. But I can still think about Joe, for some goddamn reason, and remember some of the fun stuff, the good stuff. I certainly don't blame _you,_ though, if you can't." He paused, checked his watched, glanced back at her. She could tell he was debating something.

"She called me last week. Alice."

"Oh," she felt all her breath leave her.

"Yeah, on the landline," he paused again, gathered himself. She stared at the crease between his eyebrows. "She leaves me messages a few times a year, nothing specific, you know. I never call her back. But she caught me, right when I got home the other night, and I picked up before I thought to screen the call."

Her lips felt numb. "I forget, sometimes, that you…that you have…the _option_ of speaking to each other. That must be worse, in some ways, like picking at a scab, you know, opening it up, over and over again…" she trailed off.

"Elsie," he said softly, and she started. He almost never used the diminutive of her name, nor she, his. "In the whole fucked up ordeal, _you_ got the worst of it. I can deal with the once-a-year awkward conversation with my ex, even if she seems to be going off the rails a little bit. She's basically a stranger at this point."

She shook her head, pissed off at herself for starting this, when they'd been having such a good time, "No, Charlie," she said deliberately. " _Joe_ got the worst of it. Let's not forget that."

"It was an accident," he replied softly.

"Yes, it was," she said. _Maybe. Probably not._

"Listen, bad timing, but I gotta run to this meeting," he cleared his throat. "I'll see you at Donk's later though. I'm gonna make you sing again tonight, don't even try to get out of it."

"I won't," she smiled up at him. "Thanks for lunch…and coffee."

"Anytime," he replied. "And think about what I said about Donk's, you know? Change isn't always a bad thing."

"It's usually a _good_ thing, I think. It's just a _hard_ thing," she answered. "Maybe we could do a trial run of the customized party idea on Rob and the rest of the Crawley contingent? See what he thinks?"

"Fine by me. But then you'll have to accept the idea that he might love it."

"I can handle it. Just promise me that if we do the live karaoke thing, there'll be a limit on how many people can request 'Ring of Fire.' Deal?"

"There will be a limit, and it will be ZERO TIMES."

"Thank god," and now she was laughing. "Now get out of here, you're going to be late, I'll see you later." She felt a little better, despite her earlier self-sabotage.

"Say 'hi' to the Christmas tree for me, tell her I'm bringing her a gift, poor dear."

"Funny," she swatted him. And he surprised her by scooping her into a one-armed hug. She breathed in the spicy, clean smell of his coat, resting her cheek on the rough wool.

"I remember - 'no one's perfect', right?" He let her go, gave her a warm look. "I'll see you later, Elspeth".


	4. Lay Low

**A/N: Guys! All of the places I mention are real, even The Logan (chosen for obvious reason, though). Shovels & Rope is a real, modern, rockabilly husband-and-wife duo. My hubby and I love them, and I highly recommend their music (most of it isn't as melancholic as the song I've quoted here) and "Lay Low" just fit SO well here, I had to add it. **

**Anyway, thanks again for reading, reviewing and keeping this AU alive! This could wind up being a monster of a story, I think.**

 **~CeeCee**

"Lizzy! Bee!" Isobel Grant's booming voice rang out across The Logan's dining room, turning the heads of the other, less boisterous diners. Bee and Elsie started giggling from their semi-secluded booth, simultaneously shushing her and waving her over.

"What's the occasion, might I ask? Not complaining, but this is a bit bumped up from tacos at Joe & Pete's," Isobel remarked as they hugged and kissed in greeting.

"Bee thinks she's being funny," Elsie said, rolling her eyes.

"Bee _is_ funny, Lizzy," Isobel responded, shrugging out of her coat and passing it off to the young host, who appeared at her elbow. "Thank you, good sir," she said, mock-formally, saluting the guy and sitting across from her friends. She reached for the bottle of red sitting on the table, poured herself a glass.

"She came here with Charlie the other day," Bee stage-whispered.

"Aha! Antagonistic humor, my favorite," Izzy laughed, sipped her wine. "Any movement there, Liz?" She wiggled her eyebrows.

"'Second verse, same as the first…'" Elsie lilted back to her friends, sipped her own glass, rolled her eyes, said nothing more.

"Well, _I_ have some news on that front, myself," Isobel stated. "I mean, my _own_ front, not yours."

"What exactly are we talking about?" Bee made a show of looking down at her chest. "What fronts? Whose fronts?" And they all dissolved into laughter. When they calmed down, Isobel continued,

"Listen, so, there's a new guy at work," she started. "A doctor. He's got an interesting background; he worked in Toronto for a while, in this volunteer clinic that provided clean needles and a safe place to get high to serious cases, to avoid unintentional overdosing," she shook her head, continued. "His perspective is…pretty different than _mine_ , to say the least. He's basically had the mindset for the past year, 'just keep them alive' and deal with the other shit later, if at all."

Isobel, who was a psychiatrist, was a social worker at a local clinic that focused on helping people battle substance abuse. Most of her patients had the double whammy of drug addiction and mental illness. Elsie didn't know how she did it, but she was grateful every day for her friend. That was how they'd met; Izzy was critical in placing Becky in the group home she'd lived in for the past dozen years.

"So our set-up is a total change for him, dealing with people who are ostensibly clean, working on recovery, getting their lives back together," she shook head, smiling a little. "I feel like he and I argue about something vital at least twenty times a day, but he's got the most adorable mustache, and he's just, well, a good guy."

"We're listening," Elsie grinned, topped them all off. The waitress came over, and they ordered another bottle, and dinner. When she left, she and Bee turned back to Izzy. "Okay, tell us more about cute mustache guy."

"Rich," Izzy replied. "Richard Clarkson. He's taking me to Nektar for dinner tomorrow, though we've had drinks a few times after work in the past few weeks."

"Talk about fancy," Bee replied, then paused. "How do you feel about it, really, Iz?"

"Weirdly okay," Isobel shook her head. "Reg's been gone for so long now, I think it would be worse if I _didn't_ want to date anyone. I mean, I'm freaking out right now, girls, but because, you know, I haven't even held anyone's hand in at least eight years, or more, and this guy's got some potential, you know?"

"Has he been married before? Rich?" Elsie piped up, trying to sort her feelings out. She knew it wasn't easy for Isobel to jump back into dating, but she and Reg's marriage had been a solid one, built on mutual respect, love and friendship. Unlike her own.

"No, but I know he's been serious with a few people, for sure, long-term situations," Isobel responded. "And to answer your next question: no kids, and yes, he knows about Matt. I mean, I never shut up about him, so it would be hard to work with me and _not_ hear a dozen different things about my 'amazing son' every day."

"How's that boy, speaking of?" Bee grinned, and so did Elsie. Everyone loved Matt Grant.

"Oh! _That_ was the other thing I wanted to tell you guys," Iz exclaimed. "You'll never _guess_ who he's running around with now, like, who's in his circle of friends at school – Sybil Crawley." Matt Grant was in his last year of law at Stamford.

"Get out!" Elsie exclaimed. "Are they dating? Do you know – Rob Crawley, Cora, the girls – they're all coming for the holidays, coming here. We're throwing this big shindig next week at Donk's, Rob's orders."

"No, they aren't dating, thought I don't think Matt would object to that. I get the sense that Sybil's just not interested in that right now, though she's got admiring parties of all genders and persuasions beating down her door," Izzy shook her head. "Matt refers to her as 'Doc Fem', short for 'Doctor Feminist', and he says it like it's a good thing, smart man, or he'd be getting a slap upside the head from yours truly."

"Maybe she'll change her mind, they'll both be here for the holidays," Elsie mused. Matt Grant and Sybil Crawley – now _that'd_ be a good-looking pair. And two of the nicest young people she knew.

"Nah, I think he just asked her out, well, because she's smart and kind and gorgeous, so why not? He certainly didn't seem to be carrying a torch for her, or anything," Izzy shrugged as the waiter set their meals in front of them. "And the last sort of fun thing – and I'll shut up and let someone else talk, promise – is the kids figured out that they're _related_ somehow, on Reg's side. Like, seventh cousins or something, however that works. There's a great-great-grandfather in common or something. Guess the Grants are the Crawleys' poor relations." She chuckled, dug into her meal.

"The Grants have done _just_ fine for themselves, I think," Bee interjected, and Elsie eyed her carefully. Bee and Al owned a farm, and they ran a well-loved but modest shop attached to it – produce, homemade jams, pies, cakes, to-go prepped meals, that sort of thing. They were firmly blue collar, and Iz's collar was certainly white. Elsie was the glue that held the three of them together, and she knew it, though the other two loved each other well enough.

"No doubt, Bee, no doubt, and I fly my privilege flag knowingly. But the Crawleys are a whole 'nother level, like Monopoly money level," she laughed.

"You mean Reg never bought you a bar, Iz? Not even a small one?" Bee responded tartly, and they all laughed, and Elsie breathed out, because it was fine, it was more than fine, it was great. These were the best people in the world, in _her_ world, at least.

oooOOOooo

Thursday night madness was in full swing, and she jumped onto the floor to bus tables, help Daisy and Anna out a little. The entire place was on their feet, dancing, shouting, stomping, clapping, as Charles and the crew belted out their own tonked-up version of "American Girl". Gladdie took the lead on it, with Charles backing her up, and the crowd was loving every second of it.

Elsie expertly wove her way through a cluster of sweaty, thirty-something women, singing delightedly in each other's faces.

 _Oh, yeah, alright…_

She couldn't help but grin at them, dumped few empties into her bussing bin. She swung around in an arc around the bulk of dancers, towards the stage, gracefully squatting and grabbing a glass here, a beer bottle there.

 _Take it easy baby, make it last (make it last all night!)…_

She blew a stray strand of hair out of her eye, passed by the stage. Charles tipped a wink at her, she tipped one back, her heart fluttering a little in her chest.

 _She was, an Ammmerrican girl…_

She finished her sweep, headed back towards the bar, where Anna relieved her of the full bin. The song finished up, and the crowd screamed and clapped in appreciation for the band, slapping each other on the back for their hard work on the dance floor.

"It's a good night, tonight," Anna noted, as Daisy came up next to them, nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, good vibes, I think, not that it's ever bad in here," Elsie replied.

"People are tipping like crazy though," Anna shook her head, grinning. "Not complaining, but we've either got more tourists than usual, or everyone's Christmas bonus came a little early."

"Some nights are just good nights, just like that – like this," Elsie replied, and looked back up at the stage. Charles was wiping his very sweaty forehead with a bandana. He grabbed the mic and spoke to the crowd.

"Hey guys," he said.

"HEY CHARLIE!" They yelled back.

"Listen, I'm old," he laughed. "I'm dyin' up here."

"NO WAY!"

"Yes way," he replied, swigged some water. He grinned over at Gladys, Tom and Chuck. "Elsie and Andy are gettin' me set up with a drink, right, Elspeth?" He caught her eye, and she felt a nudge, turned. Andy was holding a whiskey, up, in his hand. She took it, held it aloft.

"It's waitin' here, at the bar!" She shouted, playing along. "As long as you keep these people happy, you hear? This is a fine establishment I'm running."

"I hear that," he paused, pretended to think. Man, he could lay it on thick, sometimes. "Keep you guys happy, and she lets me sing and drink here, as long as I want."

The crowd screamed and stomped.

"We've got something new for you guys, well, maybe some of you have heard this one. It's a slow one, before we take a break, so if there's someone you're interested in smoochin', grab 'em now. With permission, of course," he laughed, and so did the crowd on the dance floor, as they paired off. "By Shovels & Rope, a husband and wife rockabilly wonder."

"I love those guys," Andy piped up.

"You were playing them in the car last week, on the way over, right?" Daisy grinned over at him. "They were good."

"This song's called 'Lay Low' – Gladdie and I will be singin' it together," Charles finished. "And Tom's gonna make you all cry with the bass part on this one."

Andy was looking at Daisy, then at Elsie. Elsie rolled her eyes at him, inclined her head. Just a little.

"Daisy, wanna dance?" Andy spit the request out.

"Yeah, sure," she replied without hesitation, though her cheeks grew red. "If it's cool by you, boss lady?"

"My god, please, go, dance, the pair of you," Elsie rolled her eyes, pushed them out onto the dance floor. She'd never heard of Shovels & Rope, but was intrigued as Charles began singing:

"Well I probably should be  
Drug out to sea  
Where I can't hurt no one  
And no one can hurt me…"

Elsie closed her eyes, listened to the words. _That's me. He's singing about_ me, _though he doesn't know it._ Gladys jumped in on harmonies on the second verse, and her heart squeezed at the sound of their voices rubbing together, so plaintively:

"…Of the letters and the notes  
The ones that you wrote  
Did they keep me afloat?  
Or just wrap 'round my throat  
Like a noose on a rope?  
Probably both…

So lay low, baby,

I won't be back anytime, soon

If it gets too lonely…"

She finally opened her eyes and found Charles staring right at her, as he and Gladdie sang:

"I don't know what to do  
What I'd do if I knew  
But we go through our day  
And get by and get through…"

And she turned away, breaking his gaze, bent to get a glass, pour a drink, do anything but look back up at that stage, listen to the words of that song, because her heart was cracking open, right here, at the bar, and it was too much. The appreciative but subdued applause broke her reverie, as did the small rush of drinkers to the bar that followed.

Andy bounded back behind the bar, looking as elated as Elsie felt confused. She and Charles had had a balance, for years, nearly a decade, and now…something was tipping, tipping, tipping.

She wasn't sure how much longer either of them could keep things holding steady, just as they were.

She wasn't sure if she wanted them to, in any case.


	5. Something New

She'd caught him staring, basically _serenading_ her, but the song was a new one to him, and the lyrics of that final verse sorta sucker-punched right up there on stage. He decided that something had to give, between the two of them, in the New Year, at the latest. For some reason, something that should have been clear for a long time, was finally staring him in the face: he was utterly in love with Elsie Hughes.

Ridiculous, sure, given the level of their physical contact was practically Victorian by today's standards, but still, there it was: he was really gone over her. It was like she carried this light around with her everywhere, and when he wasn't around her, he was stumbling around in the dark, lost. And he wasn't an idiot; well, at least not anymore. He knew she felt, well, _strongly_ , about him. It was just the vast morass of bullshit and history they each had to wade through to get to a good place – with each other.

He went over to retrieve his whiskey, glad she'd been such a good sport about bantering back and forth with him. He also noticed she'd gotten Andy and Daisy on the dance floor together, which made him grin even bigger.

"Thanks, Elspeth," he called to her from the end of the bar. She and Andy were serving full-tilt, with Daisy and Anna heading to-and-fro, as everyone rushed the bar or back to their tables before the next set started. He sipped slowly, relishing the break.

Tom Barrow and his partner, Ed, headed over towards him. Andy saw them coming and poured two glasses of the only decent red Donk's carried, left them near Charles, and headed back into the fray.

"I liked that last one a lot, Charlie," Ed said, grabbing a glass, passing it to Tom, then taking the other for himself. "Gonna do more covers of theirs?"

"Yeah, why not?" Charlie shrugged. "Gotta throw a few things in for you Millenials, Ed."

"If only I were that young, man, but that's _this_ guy, not me," he gestured to Tom. "Gen X all the way, right here. The only The Clash he knows is 'Should I Stay or Should I Go'." Ed rolled his eyes at his boyfriend.

"And that's only because of _Stranger Things,_ though I don't have the heart to make him feel any older," Tom responded dryly, which earned him a playful swat from Ed.

"It sounded good though, you guys should do some Cash-style covers, like that album he made," Ed insisted.

The other two men shrugged, grinned at each other. "Sounds good to me, Cash always loved featuring the bass," Tom replied.

"GIVE ME A GODDAMN BEER!"

Everyone at the bar suddenly turned at the aggressive exclamation, including the trio of them. About ten feet down the bar, there was a middle-aged guy leaning over the worn wood, screaming in Elsie's face. Charlie's heart leapt up and sank into the pit of his stomach, and he slammed his drink down. Andy was already closing the few feet between himself and Elsie behind the bar.

Her face was completely calm and she put her hand up to Andy.

"One sec," she said briskly. "I need you, I'll say, and don't hesitate, okay?" Andy nodded, swallowing, his eyes bouncing between his boss and the drunk patron. Elsie's eyes flicked over to Charlie, Ed, and Tom, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"ARE YOU DEAF OR STUPID, LADY?"

A small hole in the pack of humanity had opened up around the screaming man, who looked vaguely familiar to him, but Charlie couldn't quite figure out why.

"Oh, I'm no lady, Pete, ask anyone here," Elsie said quietly. Everyone around them, on either side of the bar, tittered nervously. "But I can hear you just fine." She kept her gaze focused on Pete, ignoring the rest of the crowd gathered around them.

"DON'T LAUGH AT ME!"

"They're laughing at _me,_ Pete, not you," she replied, in that same quiet voice, making everyone strain to hear her. Pete slumped a little, still leaning against the outer edge of the bar, looking less aggressive but still agitated, his eyes darting everywhere. Elsie reached out and placed her hand on his coat sleeve, and Charles' heart bounced upwards again.

"You're done for tonight, okay, Pete? Come back tomorrow, we'll take good care of you, alright?"

"Guess so, Elsie," Pete grumbled. He patted her hand, which was still resting on his sleeve, as if _he_ were reassuring _her_.

"Good. John'll take you home, right, John?" She called out to John Bates, Anna's boyfriend, who was standing near the Christmas Tree of Wonder.

"You bet. Ready, Pete?" John came over, put his hand lightly on Pete's back. Charles was sure once he let go of the bar, the man would need the support.

"You been drinkin', man? I don't wanna get in the car with someone who's been drinkin,'" Pete said solemnly, staring up at the taller man, squinting. It was only the death stare Elsie was giving the entire crowd that prevented them all from bursting out into giggles.

"Nah, man, I'm firmly on the wagon. It's one of life's little ironies that I'm crazy about a gal who works in a bar," he grinned over at Anna, tipped her a wink. She laughed, winked back.

"Great, I'm glad that's settled, thank you both," Elsie replied, then took a deep breath. "And Pete? Listen, because this is important," she stood up straighter, and there was a hint of steel in her voice. "You're good people, Pete, and everyone likes having you here, including me." She paused again, and Charles realized it was partially for effect, partially to calm herself.

"But if you pull this shit again, you're out for good, hear me? _No one who gets in my face, or anyone else's, for that matter, gets served at my bar._ It's that simple." She shrugged, smiled a little, back to sweetness and light. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

The man left in a daze, herded by the bulky figure of John Bates. About thirty seconds after the door shut behind them, there was a cacophony of whoops, cheers, nervous giggles and shouts of Elsie's name. She ignored it all and walked towards the three of them.

"I hate to ask, but could you guys start the next set a little early, like ASAP? I need a breather," she said when she reached them.

"Don't see why not," Tom replied, draining his glass. "Let me round up Gladdie and Chuck." He gave Ed a kiss on the temple. "Let's go find 'em, Eddie."

"You are a fucking badass, in case you weren't sure," Tom quipped to Elsie, who laughed heartily.

"Queen Badass!" Ed called back to her as they walked away.

She finally looked over at him, and Charlie could see she was shaken. Her eyes darted away again, and she said softly,

"That coulda gone real bad, real fast. Pretty stupid thing to do."

"Nah, you gauged it just right," he replied. "I was worried about you, but you didn't need me to be."

She looked confused for a moment, opened her mouth, shut it again. Finally said, "Thank you." He thought she wouldn't say anything else, but she spoke again. "Thank you, for worrying about me, but also…also for letting _me_ handle it."

"This is your place, not mine," he shrugged, feeling warm inside from her gratitude. No, not _just_ her gratitude. That she had expressed it to him.

"It's not mine, not really," she shook her head, blew out a deep breath, put her hands on the bar. He could see them minutely shaking.

"It is yours, really, in every way that matters," he replied, and he could see his bandmates heading towards the stage. "I don't see Rob Crawley in here, playing _both_ good cop and bad cop in the same conversation." His heart was rushing in his ears, but he reached out, took one of her vibrating hands.

She sighed, looked up at him, the looked back down at his hand on top of hers. She placed her other one on top of his.

"Hey, play another one from that new group, will you? I liked that last one a lot. But maybe one of the more upbeat ones you mentioned," she smiled at him.

"Sure, no problem. I'm still learning them, but Gladdie and I worked on one or two of the others," he stood, reluctantly letting go of her. "Want to work on one with me? Nearly all of them are duets, they sing together, these guys, and play about ten different instruments between the two of them."

"Yeah, let's figure it out," she replied. Her hands weren't shaking anymore, he could see. "Can't sing the same old songs all the time, even if they _are_ crowd-pleasers."

"True, can't forget the classics," he paused, then decided to go for it. "But sing the new ones long enough, they make you feel as good as the old ones."

"Yeah, it's time to try something new," she smiled at him, a big smile, one that reached her eyes. "I'm glad you're going to help me figure it out."


	6. Fire & Ice

**A/N: Hi all! If you are looking for overt Chelsie feelllzzzz, this likely isn't your chapter. But, but, but, I am setting up some plot things here, and bringing a bunch of faves together, for the next two chapters. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading, and reviewing!**

 **~CeeCee**

It took her longer to shake off her near-altercation with Pete than she expected, especially knowing that Rob and his crew would be showing up imminently. She was just grateful it'd happened, if had to at all, before her boss arrived.

She tried her best to push it out of her mind; Pete reminded her of Becky, of the way Becky used to be, way back, when things were really bad. Pete had been part of that circle, that group of people Becky had immersed herself in, all of them so like Becky herself: fragile and dreamy and disjointed one moment; feral and all claws and barbs the next. Most of the wildness had been tamed of out Becky these days, with the right meds and the right supervision and the right…handling.

Just as _she_ , Elsie, had tried to handle Pete: discipline cloaked in a thin layer of kindness and humor. Structure…that's what Izzy had said Becky's fragmented mind desired the most when they first met years ago, in the clinic. And what Becky's minder, Diane, echoed to Elsie every time she visited these days, or took Becky somewhere for the day, or the weekend.

But she couldn't dwell on that now; the band _would_ need a break; all of them had been good about hopping back up on stage, but Thursdays were often the busiest at Donk's, even busier than the weekends. It was the way people around here got their weekend _started._ She bent to get a dozen shot glasses for Andy who was setting up a happy group of tourists when she felt a cold gust of air from the open door on her left, and heard Charlie cut off in the middle of a song.

"Folks, I don't often do this, but you're in for a little treat tonight, as I am promised someone a little Cash, and a little Hank. Heya, Rob, Cora! Glad you stopped by," Charlie's voice was fully of wry humor. Elsie popped up, and sure enough, her boss and his wife were standing in the doorway, huge grins on their faces. Rob was wearing a cowboy hat the might have still had the tag on it. Cora laughed at Charlie's announcement, squeezed her husband's arm. She was wearing intricately-studded boots that probably cost more than what the bar would take in tonight.

Gladdie, at the keyboard, banged out a set of trumpet-like riffs that were all-too-familiar to Elsie. She choked back laughter and caught Charles' eye. He mouthed "Zero times," and shook his head in mock sadness. She couldn't help it – she laughed out loud this time. Then he began singing:

"Love is a burnin' thing,

And it makes, a fiery ring.

Bound by wild desire

I fell into a ring of fire."

But it was _exactly_ right: Rob whooped, galloped onto the dance floor, pulling Cora with him. Neither the locals nor the tourists knew what to make of him, until he shouted over to her,

"Elsie! Buy all these people a drink! Next round's on me, everyone!" The roar that followed was deafening.

Andy scooped up the shot glasses, muttering so only Elsie could hear, a small grin tugging the corner of his mouth, "You weren't kidding about him, boss lady." He turned back to the large group waiting for their shots, who were all now exclaiming over their good timing.

Elsie shook her head, started getting glasses lined up, grateful for the fact that both Rob's antics and "Ring of Fire" were keeping a large portion of the patrons on the dance floor for now. The door opened again and Elsie instinctively turned towards it, expecting Rob's daughters, maybe, or Iz with her doctor friend, who had promised to stop by after their date.

It wasn't any of them. It was Tom Branson, who owned the auto garage on the other side of Lambertville. He was a semi-regular at Donk's, especially in the warmer months and during the vintage and antique car shows that happened regularly in and around Stockton, when the owners would swing by the bar for a drink afterwards. His bread and butter was repairing and maintaining current models, but his passion was vintage vehicles.

"Hey, Tom, how goes it?" Elsie called, pulling his usual IPA out of the beer fridge, but the mechanic gestured his head outside, brow creased. Elsie's heart sped up a little, but she grabbed her coat off the hook and muttered a rushed excuse to Andy, who was had patrons two deep at his end of the bar.

"Where are you going?" He called, irritation and panic in his voice.

"Back in a few," she replied. _I hope_ , she thought. "Pull Anna behind the bar if you need to!" She gazed over at the stage, caught Charles Carson's concerned face. She spun her finger around in a winding motion, and he nodded. Just as Cash ended, the band went into "Honky Tonk Blues".

"Sorry, Elsie, I wasn't sure what else to do," Tom said, hurriedly pecking her on the cheek. He was heading towards the far end of the parking lot; all of the nearer spaces were taken by patrons. Elsie rushed after him, their breath visible in the still, cold December night.

"What's going on?"

"John Bates flagged me down a few miles down River Road. Looks like he hit the guardrails, bounced off a little. He's okay, but he's got a bad cut on his head, and refused to go to the ER. He asked me to bring him here, and he was so adamant about it, I did," Tom shrugged. "He doesn't seem drunk, just…agitated.

"Well, shit," Elsie muttered, hurrying her steps. "John doesn't drink," she continued. "But he was doing _me_ a favor and driving someone home who _had_ been drinking, too much."

"Really? He was alone when he waved me over," Tom answered, pulling his knit cap further down, over his ears. They'd reached Tom's pick up. The slightly askew hulk of John Bates leaned against it, a blood-streaked rag pressed against the left side of his face.

"Jesus," Elsie breathed. "What happened, John?"

"Pete tried to get out of the car while I was going about forty," John chuckled a little, winced. "Out _my_ door." John checked the rag, winced again, pressed it back up against the gash along the side of his face.

"You didn't say, man," Tom shook his head, laughing a little, his forehead creasing. "Still waters run deep, and all that. Should we call the cops, you think?" Glancing between John and Elsie.

John caught the look on Elsie's face. "Nah, not right now. I mean, not on _my_ account, anyway." He

"What happened to him? To Pete?" Elsie's stomach dropped.

"Dunno, he took off when I ran into the guardrail," John replied. "On _his_ side, this time. I yelled for him a few times, but I was bleeding a lot, trying to get it to stop. I was gonna call Anna, but I figured she might not even be able to answer her phone. Tom drove by at the right time. I owe you, man," he stuck out his hand and the men shook.

"Should we call the cops, you think?" Tom asked, glancing between John and Elsie.

John caught the look on Elsie's face. "Nah, not right now. I mean, not on _my_ account, anyway." He shifted the rag. "Elsie, maybe you can give Pete a call tomorrow, check in on him? See if he's alright?" She nodded, distracted, but grateful that John was being cool about the whole thing. "And I owe you, Tom, seriously."

"Buy me a shot and a beer, we'll call it even," Tom grinned at him.

"Well, I'm glad you guys got it all figured out, but what about your head, John? It doesn't look good. You might _have_ to go to the ER to get it stitched up," Elsie reached up, pulled the rag away. There was so much blood on his face, it was hard to tell how deep it was; but she knew head wounds bled a lot, so maybe it wasn't so bad…

"Are we partying in the parking lot first?" Izzy's voice rang out, and Tom and Elsie spun around. Iz was heading towards them, escorted by, yes, a very attractive guy about their age with a reddish moustache and an impressive dark grey fur _ushanka_ on his head. Matt Grant and Sybil Crawley were a few yards behind them.

"John's had a bit of an accident," Elsie rushed up to her, kissed her cheek, breathed in her ear, "Doctor Moustache, _very_ cute." And they both laughed a little.

"Oh dear. Well, thankfully a nearly full car of doctors just showed up, plus one med student, since Matt and Syb crashed our date," Isobel laughed.

"Mother, please," Matt rolled his eyes as Izzy walked up to John and greeted him with,

"Hiya, John, can I take a look?"

"Isobel, shouldn't we bring him inside, where there's more light?" Her date grinned at, looking equal parts entranced and irritated.

"Does he need stitches, do you think, Dr. Grant?" Sybil piped up, craning her neck to see Johns' wound.

"No, head wounds are the drama queens of injuries. All bluster, no bite," Izzy replied blithely. "Rich, do you have a kit in the car? Can you grab it?" Richard Clarkson rolled his eyes, but smiled as he dashed a few cars down to grab it.

"Why do you all go inside, grab a good spot and some drinks?" Izzy turned to Elsie, winked. "Rich and I will take care of John, and see you in there. Your sisters are coming over with Edith's friends from New York, right?" She addressed this last inquiry to Sybil.

"Yes, wonders never cease, they're riding together, but I think it's mostly because Mary thinks Edith's friend Kamal is hot," Sybil laughed.

"Are they anything like you, your sisters?" Matt asked.

"Don't start, Grant," Sybil replied, swatting him. "No, they're not a _thing_ like me."

"Then I might actually have a chance with one of them, you mean?"

"Look, I don't know if you'll _want_ a chance with either of them," she shook her head, turned towards Elsie.

"Elsie! How are you?"

"Wondering if your dad's started a rave inside at this point," Elsie gave Sybil a big hug.

"Oh, they're here already? Fabulous!"

"Let's all go in, then," Elsie started herding them, save John and the two doctors, across the parking lot. "Andy's probably losing his mind, and we need to get you your well-deserved rewards, Tom."

"Hey there, I'm Sybil by the way," she waved over at Tom, who grinned at her. Elsie recognized the look on his face. Many a man (and woman) had looked at Sybil that way. "This is Matt."

While the young people exchanged greetings, Elsie pushed the door open, her ears filled with the cacophony of the bar and her mind lingering out in the cold night, searching, wondering where Pete may have gone. Of all the placed he could have disappeared, into the darkness.


	7. Late Night Vibes

**A/N: Chapter summary: plot plot plot RICHOBEL FUN plot plot plot CHESLIE FEELZ (pt 1)**

Charles knew, as he stepped down after the second, extended set that he'd missed a lot in the past hour or so. No sooner had Rob and Cora Crawley made their flamboyant entrance than Tom Branson had hustled Elsie outside, looking worried. They had returned fifteen minutes or so later, accompanied by Sybil Crawley and Matt Grant, Elsie still looking distracted as she stepped back behind the bar, leaving the younger people to sort themselves out.

Isobel Grant and a mustachioed guy roughly her age, whom Charlie didn't recognize, came in a bit later, conferred with Elsie and Anna, resulting in the waitress grabbing her coat and leaving. She didn't look particularly upset; rather, determined. Andy, Elsie and Daisy worked full-tilt for the next forty-five minutes, until the band called it a night.

Gladdie and Chuck shrugged their coats on, heading home to waiting spouses and warm beds. Tom joined Ed, who currently appeared to be regaling the Crawley sisters and their hangers-on with some elaborate tale. Mary and Edith had shown up soon after their parents and younger sister, with two guys in tow: one pleasant-looking but rather nondescript, the other, with his wavy black hair, toothy smile and well-cut clothes, giving off movie star vibes.

Donk's took on a mellower, late-night vibe after the second set, as it always did, when folks started feeding quarters into the gorgeous Wurlitzer to get their music fix; not just honky tonk, but pop and rock faves and, of course, lots of slow, smoochy stuff.

Unlike his band mates, Charlie didn't have a spouse awaiting him; accordingly, he found himself gravitating in the direction of the bar, where Elsie was deep in conversation with Isobel and her date, both of whom looked thoroughly overdressed for Donk's.

"Dr. Grant, Elspeth," he greeted the ladies, then turned to Isobel's friend. "Charles Carson," he stuck his hand out.

"Richard Clarkson," the man replied, gripping his hand firmly. "I work with Isobel. I just started at the clinic a few weeks ago. I hear you're the go-to guy around here if I want anything to get done."

"Don't believe everything you hear," Charles grinned wryly, turning back towards Elsie, who was handing him a drink. She looked tired, but she was smiling at him. "Much obliged, Elspeth." He raised his glass to her.

"Any time," she grinned back at him. She was certainly subdued; he wondered what exactly had happened in the past hour and a half. Before he could ask, she was distracted by Daisy coming up to the bar, grabbing a trio of beers Andy had set out for her. "Daisy, bring those over, then call it a night, you and Andy both."

"You sure, Elsie?" Daisy's forehead wrinkled. "We've got at least an hour 'til it really clears out."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Elsie replied, as Andy walked over. "You guys seriously hustled the last hour or so, and didn't even question it. I _really_ appreciate it, especially tonight," she nodded her head towards Rob and Cora, who were slowly revolving on the dance floor to an '80s power ballad.

"Is Anna alright?" Andy asked quietly.

"She's fine," Isobel piped up, glanced over at Elsie, then Richard. "We were trying to keep the fuss to a minimum, given Elsie's special guests tonight – can you be a guest at your own bar? Anyway, when John tried drive Pete home after the kerfuffle here, Pete, well, tried to exit a moving vehicle, and…there was a bit of an accident," she finished, shrugged.

"Shit," Andy said. "Is John okay?"

"Indeed he is," Isobel replied. "Dr. Clarkson here patched him up with a few stitches, and he's good to go. We promised not to bill him if he promised not to report us to the AMA." She chuckled, as did Richard.

Charlie noticed Daisy had gone very serious, staring at her tray of beers. "Okay, Daisy?" He asked.

"Yeah, fine," she looked up, and Charlie was startled to see she was close to tears.

"Hey, Dee, what's up?" Andy asked her, searching her face.

Elsie was also watching the young woman. "Let me run these over to your table, Daisy." She came around the bar, passed him, squeezed his arm, much to his surprise. She took the tray from the waitress and hurried over to a corner table to deliver the drinks.

"Don't tell Elsie, but…but I don't like Pete," Daisy's voice was barely a whisper at this point. Charlie and Isobel exchanged a surprise glance. Charlie had barely recognized Pete earlier; he was vaguely familiar the way dozens of people around here were to him, and tonight was certainly the first time he ever drew attention to himself, at least here in Donk's. "I know she tries to help him out, 'cause he was friends with her sister, but…he was friends with _my_ parents too," she shook her head, continued. "Not Bee and Al, my…my… _other_ parents." She shrugged again, "I just don't like him." She swiped angrily at a tear rolling down her cheek.

"Hey, you heard Elsie, let's get out of here. I'll buy you an omelet at the diner, drive you home," Andy passed Daisy her coat.

"Yeah, okay, sounds good," she smiled a little. " _Andrew."_ And they both laughed, sharing a secret glance between them.

Isobel exchanged a quick look with Richard, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Daisy, can I talk to you for a few minutes? Privately?"

"Yeah, alright," Daisy pulled her knit hat on, zipped up her parka. "See you outside in a few?" She smiled at Andy, and the two women walked away, stood by the door, deep in conversation.

Elsie came back, followed the men's gaze over to her friend and her employee. Her forehead creased a little, then relaxed as the two women embraced. Daisy typed something into her cell phone, nodding at Isobel.

"She's all yours, Andy," Iz greeted them when she walked back.

"Maybe," the bartender replied rather contemplatively, and the four older people burst out laughing, and he shrugged, reddened as he bid them goodbye.

Elise walked behind the bar, faced the three of them. Stared at her friend.

"Iz?"

"Later, I promise. Really. Right now, I believe I'd like to dance, if you're game, Dr. Clarkson? I know this has been not quite your standard first date," she turned to Richard, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"All the better, I think," Richard replied. "This may, in fact, be the most interesting first date I've ever been on." He stood, smiling down at her. Charles and caught Elsie's eye, winked.

"Well, _I_ haven't been on a first date in oh, god, thirty-five years or so, so I've nothing to compare it to, but I'm glad you think we're doing well," Isobel replied, and the other three laughed. She looked perplexed. "What?"

"Don't bother trying to figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, Rich," Elsie was still laughing. "I would just take her to dance, now, while you're both still ahead of the game."

Charles watched them go, and Elsie leaned over the bar, close enough for him to smell her shampoo, again. _Hair care as aphrodisiac,_ he though, and chuckled a bit. Then he noticed Elsie watching him, the corner of her mouth turning up a little. Now he better understood why she had handled Pete so carefully. He didn't know much about her sister, other than she had some sort of mental breakdown, right around the time everything went down with Joe and Alice. He was ashamed to say he didn't even know the woman's name, or if she was older or younger than Elsie.

"I'm glad they're having a good time," Elsie murmured. "He seems smart, and nice, and, surprisingly enough, charmed by the rather, shall we say, _blunter_ aspects of Iz's personality."

"Isobel is good people," he replied.

"One of the best," she answered, smiling bigger now. "I owe her _a lot._ "

He sat there for a few moments, as she took care of a few customers, though the place was slowly emptying out. He just watched her, doing the mundane things that went along with running a bar, happy to be sitting here, nearby. Rob, Cora and their daughters left with their group in a great bustle of good cheer and snarky conversation. They were all coming back tomorrow, late afternoon, for dinner catered by Bee Mason, before Donk's opened for the evening. Charlie promised to be there.

"I see no fewer than three love triangles developing between all of those kids," Elsie laughed after they had left.

" _That's_ the age to be stupid about love," he answered, then chided himself.

"Shit, I wish someone had told me," she responded, laughing. "I also just realized I've gotta break this place down by myself. I sent everyone home." She didn't look too bothered by the prospect.

"I can help you out," he answered, jumping up. "Please, order me around."

"I will," she handed him a bussing bin. "Go grab as many empties as you can, dump anything left in them, sort and put into the proper racks."

"Aye, aye, cap'n," he offered her a small salute, grabbing the bin.

"Thanks, Charlie."

His heart soared. "You're very welcome, Elsie."

oooOOOooo

"That's it, I think," Elsie tucked the large push broom in the closet on the side of the stage, turned towards him.

He flipped the last two chairs back down onto the floor, pushing them in tidily. Suddenly, his heart fluttered nervously. They'd had Donk's to themselves for the past half hour, once they pushed Izzy and Richard, who had insisted on helping a little, out the door. But they hadn't _really_ seemed alone, not until now, each of them moving around efficiently, focused on the tasks of shutting the place down for the night, their industry accompanied by a stream of music emanating from the jukebox.

He turned and took her in, one hand on her hip, the other blowing a stray hair out of her eyes. Her smile changed, shifted. She could feel it too, he figured. It was late, they were tired, and standing less than twenty feet away from each other.

She cleared her throat. "I guess I better unplug the Tree of Wonder," she said softly.

"Oh, that reminds me!" He dashed over to where his satchel was, grabbed a plan brown bag from it. "I've been meaning to give this to you all night."

"I'm afraid," she muttered, grinning at the bag in her hand. She opened it, burst out laughing. "No you did not!"

"There were no turkeys," he shrugged. She pulled the gag rubber chicken he'd bought out, and seriously applied herself to attaching it to the top of the tree. She stood back when it met her criteria, bumped her hip against him jokingly.

"The biggest challenge will be making sure no one steals it," she'd folded her arms across her chest and seemed truly pleased with his surprise tree topper. She glanced up at him, and he could see something working in her eyes. "Care to dance, Mr. Mayor?"

He went hot, then cold, then hot again. He could scarcely believe she'd said it, it was so near what he'd wanted to say to her.

"I thought you'd never ask, Elspeth," he responded, extended his hand, making a show of twirling her in towards him, and she laughed. But then, when their bodies were actually touching, _everywhere_ , they both got quiet. She looked up at him briefly, then put her head against his chest. Something slow and slightly melancholic came from the Wurlitzer. He couldn't name the song, or the singer, but it hardly mattered, right now.

They swayed together for those fleeting two, three, four minutes, in the dim but cozy glow of Donk's, neither really sure what would happen next, but content, in each other's company, for the moment.


	8. Late Night Chat

Chapter 8 – Late-Night Chat

 **A/N: Guys, I've been gone too long, I know. And this entire chapter contains nary a Chelsie moment. It's basically a conversation between Isobel and Matthew. But I PROMISE I am setting up some great, twisty plot things as well as some great, feels-filled Chelsie things. Also, Richobel! ~CeeCee**

 **PS – I am adding an extra chapter to In Flux for Christmas.**

Isobel let herself into her house several hours after Thursday night became Friday morning, feeling very much like a girl sneaking into her parents' place after staying out just a little too late for the door to still be unlocked. The feeling was only reinforced by the greeting from living room down the short hallway. _I've been caught_ , she thought, and grinned.

"Hi, Mother! I have popcorn! And booze!"

She laughed, a little nervously, wiped at her mouth, little shivers hitting her body everywhere, remembering the bristly tickle of Richard's mustache against her lips. She hadn't been kissed in nearly a decade, and Reg never did facial hair. A lot of nearly-forgotten sensations were suddenly reappearing, but that particular sensation, both abrasive and appealing, was completely new to her.

She kicked her heels off, her feet sighing in relief. She threw her coat on the hook and went to join Matt. He was lounging on the couch in sweats and a Stanford Law hoodie, some moody-looking comic book show playing at low volume on the TV. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, so happy he was here, he was _home_ , for the next few weeks. They were both quite independent, but she missed him sorely while school was in session.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be home yet," she said, took the glass of wine he offered her willingly, snagged the promised bowl of popcorn off his lap. Her romantic dinner seemed ages ago, after triage in Donk's parking lot, chatting, dancing, flirting, dancing some more, helping Lizzy and Charles clean up, then, well, Rich's mustache.

"Got here about an hour ago," Matt gave her a lopsided grin. "Did you have a good time? Do I even need to ask, given that it's nearly two in the morning?"

"I did, a very good time," she paused, trying to read his face. This was completely new territory for both of them. Reg had died, very suddenly, of an aneurysm, when Matt was a sophomore in high school. For a long time, for years, getting through each day, then each week, then each month, had been the best they both could do. She could honestly say she hadn't even contemplated going out with anyone (though she'd been asked a few times) until Matt started law school two and a half years ago.

"I'm glad, Mother," he answered, his voice containing the teasing but warm lilt it usually did when he said her name. He had only started calling her formally after Reg died. She'd been "Mom" until then. He had switched so gradually, she hadn't noticed at first. When she did, and asked him about it, he merely said she was doing the job of both parents, and he wanted to remind himself to take her seriously.

"Are you, Matt? I know this has to be pretty weird for you…"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, it's really fucking strange, coming home and watching _Luke Cage_ and waiting up for _my mom_ to come home from her date," he laughed, ran a hand through his dark blond hair, making it stick up in several directions. "But yeah, I _am_ glad; mostly that you met someone that you _wanted_ to go on a date with. You take zero shit from anyone, so the guy must be pretty okay. I mean aside from the porn 'stache."

"Matthew Grant!" She swatted at him, both of them laughing.

"Wait! Wait! I'm sorry – did he grow it for Movember November and forget to shave it off? My bad!"

"I _like_ the mustache, okay?"

"Listen, this conversation is gonna get super uncomfortable real fast if we keep talking about how cute you think he is," Matt rolled his eyes at her.

"Well, what about you, then? Why are you home so early?"

"I got home at one! I'm usually _asleep_ by eleven most nights these days. This as wild as I get, sorry to disappoint," he rolled his eyes, took the popcorn back from her. "But it was fun, sure. We went back to the Crawley Manse – and yes, that's what I'll be calling it going forward – after leaving that dive all you old folks like," he paused, getting the swat from her he deserved, then continued. "We drank some really expensive whiskey while Mary Crawley held court with the male model bro, Kamal. But the _other_ friend of Edith's –the normal guy, Evan, not the model bro – works with Bert Pelham!"

"Oh, Bertie! Get out!" Bert Pelham had been one of Matt's closest friends since middle school; they'd been on the cross country team together, the debate team. As a mother, Isobel could never overvalue the young man; he'd been there for Matt, unfailingly, when Reg died, from emailing him school assignments to getting Matt to start running again, start taking an interest in being a sixteen-year-old boy again.

"Yeah, he was alright, Evan. And Bert's gonna be back at his folks' in a few days, he texted me earlier. He's interested in meeting the Sisters Crawley. Apparently, Evan has been talking up Edith to him. I guess he's trying to set them up," Matt shrugged. "Funny that they going to meet up _here_ , when they both live in New York."

"What's she like, Edith? I feel like I always _saw_ those girls, well, women now, around New Hope and stuff, back when you all were in middle and high school, but I don't really _know_ them at all."

"Well, you know I love Syb – no, not like that, as hot as she is – and Edith's pretty cool too. Totally different than Doc Fem, she wasn't lying about that. But Edith's got some super junior editing position at The New Yorker – so yeah, junior, and I am sure her folks know someone who knows someone, but she's like, twenty-four and working at The New Yorker, so she's pretty sharp. She's a little awkward, but warm and enthusiastic, once you start talking to her. I think that's why this Evan guy thought of Bert – they definitely have that in common. Edith seems like the kind of person that, if she's on your side, she's _really_ got your back."

"And Mary?" Isobel noticed something – a very, very small something – flicker in her son's eyes when she said the eldest Crawley sister's name. Was it interest? Maybe.

"Well, Mother, I know there are a handful of words you mightily disapprove of, usually used in reference to women, so I don't think I should tell you what I _really_ think of Mary, other than she's a total snob," Matt replied, and Isobel was surprised to see her mild-mannered son seemed a little…agitated.

"Well –" She began, but Matt cut her off.

"Whatever you're gonna say, whatever excuse you've got for her – she's beautiful, she's rich, she's privileged, she's super smart – don't forget, so's Doc Fem, and Sybil's one of the chillest people I know."

"Matt, are you okay?"

"Yeah, sorry, Mom," he laughed, stood, cleaning up the coffee table. "Mary's just the kind of person who really gets to me. Someone who has _everything_ and tries to make everyone who doesn't, including her sister, feel like shit if they don't," he stopped, thought for a second. "And it wasn't just her being a bit– a _snob_ – it was something else, something with that Kamal guy."

"Well, look, Matt, even your old mom noticed how good-looking that guy was, so…"

"No, not that, it was…I don't know. I don't want to say. Something's off there, maybe with her, definitely with him. But whatever, it's nothing to do with me, and Doc Fem wouldn't get caught up in it…so..." he trailed off, as if he suddenly remembered he was talking to his mother. Who was a psychiatrist.

" _Good night_ , Mother," he leaned down, kissed her heartily on the cheek. "Shouldn't you get to bed? Don't you have minds to bend and lives to change tomorrow? With the added distraction of your coworker's…mustache?"

"Go on, get out here," she shooed him, laughing. Watched his retreating figure, listened as he cleaned everything up in the kitchen. Then, his heavy tread on the staircase as he went up to bed. She leaned back on the couch, sipping the dregs of her wine.

Matt's show was still on. She had no idea what it was about, but some good-looking guy picked up a dresser and threw it across a room. A somewhat haunted-looking young woman showed up, and threw something else heavy. Isobel got the impression they liked each other.

 _Sometimes it's so hard to tell,_ she laughed to herself. _What the hell am I watching? God, tomorrow at the clinic is going to be…interesting._

She mused pleasantly on her date with Rich, just how much she enjoyed his company, his willingness to help out, both with John Bates' injury and with Lizzy's end-of-night cleaning up. And mostly, his kisses out in front of her house, not twenty minutes ago. She thought about the fact that they had left Lizzy and Charlie Carson alone at Donk's, and wondered if her friend would have a similar story to tell tomorrow as well.

She knew Liz carried around a lot of guilt – about her sister, about Joe – and that she, Isobel, didn't know everything there was to know about Joe's death, things Lizzy hadn't told her. She resisted the occasional urge to pull Joe Burns' autopsy report, which she could access relatively easily, as he died on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River. She ignored her curiosity when it reared its ugly head, because whatever was in that report, whatever it would tell her, as a professional, wouldn't be worth the huge gaping maw it would create between her and her friend. _Friends_ , because Bee would have none of it, going behind Lizzy's back. But maybe _Bee_ knew more…

She thought about Matt, his visceral dislike and apparent interest in Mary Crawley creating an agitation he rarely saw in her son, and never about a woman. She wondered what it was about her, and what it was, exactly, about that good-looking guy Kamal that set Matt on edge.

 _Too late, too many mysteries,_ she thought sleepily. The young couple on Matt's show were now embracing. _Aha! I was right!_ She laughed, and then her phone rattled against the glass coffee tabletop. She jumped. Picked it up.

 _Definitely the most interesting first date I've EVER had. Thank you, Isobel. See you tomorrow._

She laughed, her stomach fluttering in a way she vaguely remembered from college, when she first started dating Reg. She paused, thinking, then typed, hit "Send".

 _Oh, I quite agree. But just wait until our second._

She shook her head at her phone, plugged it in. Headed up to bed, at last. Excited to see what tomorrow held.


	9. Lost & Found

**A/N: Richobel and plotty stuff this chapter, but ALL CHELSIE ALL THE TIME FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER. And the next chappie is essentially written already, will be posting later tonight. PROMISE.**

 **Possible triggers: Discussion of drug abuse/withdrawal/mental health issues next few chapters.**

 **I've a relative on each side of my family who have been down this particular road, and my aunt has the added complication of schizophrenia. I did a little research (for this fic, and another non-ff mystery novel I am working on) to give these chapters some verisimilitude, but by all means, tell me if I've really messed something up/beleaguers your suspension of disbelief.**

Isobel rubbed her eyes, put her glasses back on. She reached for her mug and was surprised to find it was empty. She checked the time on her computer screen – 11:32 a.m. Too early for another coffee run, or they'd have to scrape her off the ceiling. It wouldn't do to be as distracted and over-caffeinated as her clients usually were.

She checked her online calendar and noted her scheduled sessions were mostly with caregivers, with half-hour free windows of time peppered throughout, in case of emergencies. The clinic offered support not only to those suffering the impact of addiction and mental illness, but for the closest family members, those individuals who were nearly as impacted by the ravages of the foregoing combination as the sufferers themselves, sometimes more so. Connecting with these folks, making sure they remembered to practice self-care, mentally, so they had the stamina to make it through the always tumultuous withdrawal and recovery (and potential relapse) process of their loved ones, was essential to the clinic's mission statement and to the success of the patients' rehab.

Isobel was proud and grateful to be part of creating the course of care, back when the clinic was initially established fifteen years ago. The operation of the place relied almost entirely on a single private funder, and there was a flexibility and expansiveness to the services and resources they provided, especially to the underserved community of drug addicts: those without financial or emotional resources. Their facilities offered "luxe recovery" (she hated that term, but there it was) to an array of patients; payment was on a sliding scale, free, in many instances, and everyone who worked here treated each client equally, whether their invoice was five figures or one.

She knew that this was the most difficult shift for Rich Clarkson – he was used to being in the field, interacting with people each at the nadir of their individual addictions; mostly homeless, destitute, oftentimes, funding their habits with dangerous activities, including prostitution. Basically, people looking for a clean needle, somewhere to get out of the elements for a bit, maybe a hot cup of coffee and a cold sandwich.

He wasn't used to the democracy of what recovery looked like here. A common sight in the outpatient program waiting room could be a young guy in a ragged plaid hunting jacket, the skin on his hands dirt-covered and split from the cold, chatting easily with the middle-aged woman in wool slacks and silk shell, holding her three-hundred-dollar purse on her lap with manicured hands, both sipping coffee out of eco-friendly paper cups and comparing notes on withdrawal symptoms, waiting for their group session to start. Addiction and mental illness were great equalizers.

She was looking at her empty coffee mug, still contemplating having another, when there was a perfunctory knock on her door; it swung open, and Rich's head appeared in the doorjamb. Her stomach did a lazy, bouncing flip at the sight of him, much to her combined chagrin and pleasure. He looked very handsome to her in a checked button-down shirt and green wool vest.

"Good morning, Dr. Grant," he grinned at her, but he looked distracted. "Do you have a few minutes?" He walked in, and she realized he had two takeout cups of coffee in his hand. He passed one to her. She laughed a little, took it. _Ah, well, so much for caffeine moderation_.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson, you're looking well-rested this morning," she grinned at him as he sat across from her. "Yes, I've got a 12:30, but nothing until then."

"You're looking rather nice yourself, Dr. Grant, if I may say."

"You may, anytime you are moved to do so," she replied, and they both laughed a little. She rather liked the slightly awkward, nervous, yet charged feeling that existed between them right now. It had been awhile, too long, really, since there'd been anything or anyone truly _new_ in her life. She was glad it was him.

His face suddenly got serious. "Listen, I've spent most of the morning doing screenings." His team was tasked with, among other things, performing regular and court-mandated drug tests.

One of the things they'd butted heads about in the past few weeks was whether or not to turn a blind eye if someone's results came back…well…less than pristine. She was of the mind that a little backsliding could lead to _more_ backsliding, which could lead to a bigger lapse of sobriety. He felt that it was par for the course, and that low levels of almost anything, especially if someone was willingly coming to be tested and attending group or individual sessions, should be, well, conveniently forgotten. Unless it became a pattern.

They'd come to an uneasy truce that _one_ questionable test could be overlooked, and forgotten. After that, no more forgetting, or ignoring. Isobel firmly believed that personal responsibility was a key to nearly every addict's full recovery, regardless of what circumstances started them down the path in the first place.

"And?" She sipped her coffee. A cappuccino, from a local café, she was sure, not a chain. She tried to hide her smile, maintain a professional demeanor. "Do we need to call the courts on anyone?"

"No, it's not that," he grinned back at her, and ran his hand through his hair. It stuck up appealingly, she thought, in direct contrast to the tidy figure he cut otherwise. "Jeff Hammond is in your Tuesday group, right? Well, he brought a friend with him today, said the guy needs our help."

It happened more often that people would think; an addict in the depths of their addiction was a solitary, selfish creature, focusing only on getting high. Nothing else mattered. But there were _people_ in there, under the addiction, and most of them, Isobel found, as they climbed out of their own dark holes, wanted to turn around and help pull others out as well.

"The guy's in rough shape; several contusions, including a cranial one, possibly a concussion; I had to stitch him up in a few places, too. He's high as kite right now; I've got him in one of the bays in short-term, trying to help him come down safely," Richard cleared his throat, leaned forward. "Isobel, I think it's the guy Elsie kicked out of the bar last night. He's ranting and raving, saying that he was thrown out of a moving vehicle in the middle of the night, tossed into the river, left to die."

"Damn," Isobel whispered. "Does he have any ID on him?"

Richard shrugged. "Not sure. But Jeff kept calling him 'Pete', and he mentioned Donk's a few times. Would you recognize him?" She shook her head. If she'd ever seen the man, it would have been at least a dozen years ago, when she was first treating Becky Hughes. She knew Becky, of course, and a few others in that group, including Daisy Mason's biological mother. But though she'd heard about Pete, she'd never really interacted with him.

"Well, do you mind coming with me, and chatting with him for a few minutes anyway? He's distressed, and if we don't have to pull the cops in…" he trailed off, shrugged.

"I'd rather not, honestly, if we can avoid it. Too many people I like and care about would have to get involved," she stood, snagging the coffee Richard had bought her. "I have a feeling I'll be grateful for this. Thanks again." She came around her desk, standing close enough to touch him, but resisting the urge. This was work, not playtime.

"Anytime," he replied, and she could see what she was feeling reflected on his face. He grinned a bit to himself, then said. "I'm glad you agreed to spend your Friday evening with me, or this would be a rather punishing day for me, I have to admit, Isobel."

"I don't disagree, but we best save that sort of talk for _outside_ work hours," she replied, her heart pulsing in her neck, her stomach taking that wonderful, lazy roll again.

"Well, alright then. Let me escort you to your general psych eval of a new intake, currently detoxing in Outpatient Room Three," he took a sip of his own coffee, ushered her out the door.

"Dr. Clarkson, you say the most _romantic_ things."


	10. Midday Run

Elsie slowed to a walk, taking a swig from her water bottle. Her warm breath puffed out in front of her, as she began her post-run cool down. Just a few slow miles, along the canal footpath, helped clear her head and get her day started, and she really needed it today, especially. It also added balance to her life, to the demands of her job: she knew she stayed up too late, drank a bit more than she should and probably – no, _definitely_ – didn't get enough sleep. The running helped her feel less guilty about her other, er, more questionable habits.

Her phone buzzed in its holder around her upper arm. _Isobel._

"Iz! What's up? You'll be proud of me, doctor, I'm braving the elements, just finished a run," she smiled.

"Hey Lizzy. That's great," her friend replied. She got the impression Iz hadn't heard a word of what she said.

"Isobel?"

"Listen, Liz. You know…that thing…that got lost? Last night?"

"What?" She took another sip of water, another deep breath, trying to catch up to what her friend was saying. "What do you mean?"

"That thing that you gave to John Bates," Iz's voice was unnaturally light, and tight. Elsie could hear commotion behind her, people talking, a door closing.

 _My god. Pete._ Elsie stopped walking abruptly. "You found him? Is he okay? Is he at the clinic?" She was worried she was going to faint. She hadn't realized until this very moment how responsible she felt for Pete's disappearance. That, if something terrible had happened to him, she would have added it to the long list of grievous mistakes she'd made in her life.

"Yes! When I found it, I knew you'd want to know it was okay, just slightly a little worse for the wear," Iz finished up. Elsie knew she wouldn't say much more. There were laws, confidentiality and patient rights and all sorts of things she didn't completely understand. What she _did_ understand was that her friend had bent the rules to call her, let her know about a man Elsie had spent the morning thinking was seriously injured, possibly dead.

"Thanks, Iz. I mean it. I know you can't tell me anymore, but if he's there, he's in good hands," Elsie leaned against the fence along the tow path. "Are you around tonight? Can we talk? Or do you have another date with Doctor Mustache?"

"I do, in fact," she responded, in her own voice, not the faux-casual one she'd just been using, and Elsie could hear that she was smiling. "I'm not sure exactly where the evening will take us, but perhaps we can stop by Donk's again, for a nightcap? And listen, I'm going to try and hold on to that thing you lost for a few days, if I can. No promises, but let's have lunch Monday morning, for sure, okay?"

"Yeah, sounds good. And…thanks again, Iz. Pete makes me think of Becky, which makes me think of Joe…and you know, round and round it goes, until I can't keep track of all the things I feel guilty about," Elsie sighed, hugged her elbows against her chest. Now that she'd stopped moving, she was getting cold.

"While I do believe in the power of personal responsibility, Lizzy, it can be overdone – not _everything_ is on you. And certainly, not everything is your fault," her friend paused on the other end of the line. "You know _my_ evening ended nicely last night; how about yours?"

Elsie sighed, but couldn't keep the smile from her lips, in spite of herself. "I suppose I could say about the same – though maybe not as excitingly as _yours_ did, I would guess. I'm not the one with a second date, after all, or even a _first_ one."

"I won't lecture, but that is _very_ easily remedied."

"You're probably right. Not probably, _definitely_. And who knows? Maybe I'll do something to remedy it myself," she blurted out, her heart speeding up. She thought of the feeling of Charles' hand at the small of her back, the smell of his shirt, as they danced in the closed bar last night.

"Good," Iz stated. She could tell her friend wanted to say more. Much more. "And on that rather hopeful note, I best be running. Lots to do, and _loads_ of distractions over here!"

After their call ended, Elsie stood there for a few more minutes, the chill air settling on her. She nodded and smiled at other runners, walkers and cyclists as they passed her. What _did_ she mean, exactly? Maybe…maybe, it was time to _do_ something. To take action. She could still berate herself, blame herself for everything, she supposed, but couldn't she do that _and_ go on a date, a real date, with Charlie Carson?

 _You're loony, you're not making any sense,_ she thought, and shook her head. And then, her heart caught in her throat. Not twenty yards away was the man himself, jogging slowly but steadily towards her. He hadn't spotted her yet, and she took a moment to observe him unawares: his large yet graceful form moving dexterously, his dark hair, curling slightly from perspiration, pushed away from his face by a fleece ear-warmer, his forehead creased with exertion and concentration. She could see he was mouthing whatever song was currently blasting through his earbuds.

She waved at him before she could stop herself. The sight of him just made her feel so _good_ , so _happy,_ right to her toes. He refocused, his faraway, concentrated look dissolving into an easy grin as he spotted her flagging him down.

"Elspeth! Are you just starting, or already finished?" He was breathing steadily but deeply, tiny beads of sweat gathered in his thick eyebrows.

"Finished, but I don't want you to stop on my account. Can I join you?" She smiled up at him. "How much farther are you going?"

"To the footbridge, by Donk's and the market," he replied, as she paced herself with him. She was faster than he was, but he had the advantage of stride; he was almost a foot taller than she, his legs far longer, so it worked out almost perfectly. She was running at the exact speed she had been earlier.

"I didn't know you ran," she spoke once they had gone about a quarter of a mile.

"Well, this isn't quite fast enough to be called a 'run', really, but yeah, I like it. I prefer cycling, but sometimes this is just the right thing. All you really need is a good pair of sneaks, no fancy gear" he grinned down at her. "Besides, I need to do _something_ to offset my nights at Donk's."

"Here, here!" She replied, laughing.

"The Crawley entourage are coming tonight, early, right? For Bee's dinner?"

"Yeah, they are. I hope that's the only excitement for the evening, please!"

"How's John, speaking of?" He glanced over at her.

"Anna texted me this morning – he's fine. No concussion symptoms, he went to work, no problem. She'll be in this evening, same as always," she paused for a long moment, listening to their breathing in the still December afternoon. "They found Pete."

Charles suddenly stopped, turned to her. "What do you mean?" He looked shocked.

"Isobel called me right before I saw you. She couldn't say outright, but he's at the clinic, somehow. Not in great shape, but then, he never is," she shrugged up at him. "You alright?" She was puzzled by his reaction.

"I thought you meant…well…shit, sorry, I thought you meant, they found him…that he…"

"Oh god," she whispered. Realizing what he meant. Exactly what _she_ had been worried about for the past twelve hours: that Pete was dead.

"Yeah, sorry. Pete's grasp on life seems, well…tenuous," he shrugged self-consciously. "We can walk the last bit, that's fine." The started moving again, and she saw he was thinking hard about something.

"What is it?" She finally asked.

"Pete knew your sister?" Her heart leapt to her throat with his question. It wasn't a secret, not at all, but he wouldn't have any reason to know, particularly, about Becky's connection to the man.

"Yes, he knew her," now it was her turn to stop. "That was a long time ago, though."

"Elspeth…Elsie," he started. "I try very hard to mind my own business, but…I'm not sure you should let Pete back into Donk's. I appreciate the connection he may have had with your sister, but…"

She nodded, fighting the anger that rose up in her. She wasn't mad at _him_ , not really, but she _was_ mad that he was telling her something she already knew, something she should have done a long time ago: sever ties with certain things in her past, in Becky's past.

"Yeah, you're right," her voice came out brittle with regret. He looked like he wanted to say something else. "Don't think I didn't see Daisy's reaction last night. I know it was about Pete, and it's not too hard to connect the dots: Pete, Becky, Daisy's bio parents – all addicts, all hooked on the same shitty stuff, all scraping by to scrape the drugs together, doing whatever they needed to do."

"Becky…that's your sister?"

"Yeah. Younger by eight years. She was always a little…she has paranoid schizophrenia. Diagnosed when she was nineteen. She was always here, there, gone, and back again. She'd disappeared for a month, half a year. Sometimes, she'd come back clean, or nearly so, with the right prescriptions from a pharmacy two hundred miles away. Sometimes, she'd show up, three in the morning or one in the afternoon, skin and bones, so jittery and high her teeth practically cracked from chattering together so hard. Always with these disjointed stories, tales of road trips to Florida, New York, New Orleans," she shook her head, tried to staunch the flow of words coming out of her mouth, but they wouldn't be stopped.

"After my mother died, and I moved up here, she came with me. I couldn't leave her, I knew it. But I…I had so little control over her, really. She just did what she wanted. That's what addicts do. What they want, or really, what they _need_ \- anything to get the drugs," she realized suddenly that there were tears streaming down her face, and Charlie was digging tissues out of a pocket in his running gear, handing them to her.

She blew her nose. "Right before I met Joe, I mean, like a few weeks before, she stole my car. Took off. The first six years we were together, she wasn't really around. Oh, she called me, a few times, from god knows where. Or she'd beg me to meet her for coffee at some gas station. She wasn't even at our wedding, such as it was. Then she came back, and we figured out a place for her to…to stay. Nearby. Things seemed to be on the upswing for a bit, but then…well you know," she finished, completely spent.

"Alice and Joe," he replied, nodding.

"Well, when we _found out_ about them, I guess. Alice and Joe were clearly happening way before that, were clearly _official,_ as we both know," she said the words, expected to feel bitter, but somehow, she didn't. She didn't even feel guilty, for once.

"Yeah," he shrugged, and then stepped slightly closer to her. She could smell the sweat of him, felt a tug in her lower gut at the scent of him, of this man she'd wanted for a very long time. Her head spun a little. "Lots of things feel official, before they're ever talked about, I think. Or acknowledged."

"Yes," she answered, stupidly. She'd run out of words, out of clear thoughts.

"Elsie, I'm sorry." And now he was very close, too close, no, no, no, exactly the right distance, really, from her, which was no distance at all.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" A voice that didn't sound like her own. That she could barely hear over her pounding heart, the roaring in her ears.

"For what happened with your sister. With Joe and Alice. With all of it happening nearly at once. That I didn't know, didn't ask," he paused, and then he put his hand on her cheek. My god, it felt _good._ "But mostly, because I didn't do this, that I waited so long, maybe put it on you, and I shouldn't have. You've got enough on you plate already."

And then he wrapped his other arm around her waist, leaned over and kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, twining her fingers in his sweaty hair, their mouths and arms and bodies warm and sweaty, in sharp contrast to the crisp, cold air blowing off the choppy Delaware. She kissed him deeply, tasting the salt from his sweat, relishing in the musky, masculine scent of him after his run, feeling like she was trying to cram all of the kisses she'd wanted to give him over the past few years into one moment, as if there would never be enough time for them, not possibly.

They broke apart and just stared at each other. Every part of her was humming pleasantly, from her sore lips to her tired legs. He was looking at her in a way she wasn't quite used to, a way that was dangerous and lovely and highly inappropriate on a public towpath on a Friday afternoon.

The air was thick and rich with what had just happened, what _could_ happen, between the two of them.

"Apology accepted," she finally said in a rusty voice. They both laughed a little nervously.

Then she kissed him again.


End file.
